


Dareda!

by bible



Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment, 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Creampie, Dacryphilia, Dirty Talk, Face-Fucking, Homophobic Language, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex, Partners in Crime, Power Dynamics, Size Kink, Spit As Lube, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:20:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22123993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bible/pseuds/bible
Summary: Hamura and Kuroiwa have known each other for twenty years.
Relationships: Hamura Kyohei/Kuroiwa Mitsuru
Comments: 9
Kudos: 33





	Dareda!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MenaHahn_Kentut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenaHahn_Kentut/gifts).



> big phat spoilers present, don't read if you haven't finished judgment!

Kamurocho – 1992

“Alright, get out of the fucking car.”

Aged twenty-six and very intoxicated, Hamura stares up at Kuroiwa from where he’s half-slithered out of the driver’s side window to breathe into the traffic cop’s face and insist: _smell my breath? No alcohol here, sir._

Everything’s shifting behind the silhouette of a sharp, young police officer taking his job too seriously. The headlights of cars passing by from where he’s been pulled over leave gold and red afterimages of light long after they’ve gone, smears lingering and drifting behind Kuroiwa. They don’t seem to fade either, piling up in Hamura’s vision until it’s blinding. Hamura squeezes his eyes shut and feels his head swim, feels his brain rattle around in his skull like a horsefly.

“Fuck—”

“Get out of the car, sir. You’re drunk.”

“No, I’m not,” Hamura insists, lifting his head and opening his eyes. The lights are gone, and now Kuroiwa seems faceless in the dark. Hamura’s neck feels as if he’s trying to balance a vase made of steel, stiffened with strain. Kuroiwa’s got rainbows in his pupils, like oil slicked on the beach. Hamura finds this very cute. “I took acid.”

Kuroiwa doesn’t dignify this with a response, instead jerking the car door open and hauling Hamura’s dead weight out by his shoulders. Hamura is taller than him, though, and strong despite his high, and he juts a forearm into Kuroiwa’s chest, catching his wrist on the badge that glints like moonlight.

“Hands off of me. Do you fucking know who I am?”

“Should I?” Kuroiwa scoffs, and his fingers go to his blackjack that sits at his waistline.

“I’m a—” before he can stupidly spill his further criminal association, the world dips on its axis and Hamura staggers to the left, reaching out to snag Kuroiwa by the uniform, dragging him with him as he loses balance. His head throbs with an overwhelming pulse. _Who turned up the bass in my head?_

Kuroiwa pushes his hands off of him and watches Hamura pitifully lose footing. He trips but stabilizes himself on his own car. They’re on the overpass. He’d almost like to watch Hamura fall over the concrete barrier, splattering in the traffic below, if he weren’t to somehow be blamed for it. “Just come back from a club? Or—what do losers like you do nowadays—a rave?”

“How’d you know?” Hamura laughs; it’s a strange noise, this cackle that makes Kuroiwa think of oni in horror stories, those awful one-eyed demons of children books. The hair on the back of his neck stands, but his dick also strangely twitches in his pants. “Just saw these weirdos—Denki G—”

“Didn’t ask.”

“Yes, you _did_.”

The humor is gone from Hamura’s face, replaced with this chilling frown more befitting of a noh mask than a human being. _Who are you?_ Kuroiwa thinks, intrigued, circling this tall, ice-eyed creature tripping over himself but wearing a cocaine-dealer suit. This is the first time he’s been confronted with a character; not just the same old speeding salaryman on his way to work, not another drunk group of high schoolers that Kuroiwa takes great pleasure in throwing against the cop car, in cuffing them too tight, in raising his blackjack to.

“Put your hands behind your ba—”

Before Kuroiwa can finish his sentence, Hamura takes a swing. But the drugs have made him slow, sloppy, and Kuroiwa catches his wrist easily. He can barely contain the smile tugging at his soft, boyish lips that would better fit a teacher or a stay-at-home cook than a cop with a penchant for brutalization. “Oh-ho. Feisty, aren’t we? We just upped the DWI to an attempted assault.”

But Hamura doesn’t intend to make it _attempted_ , and he watches with a half-chub as Kuroiwa falls on his face once Hamura knocks his legs out from under him with a sweeping kick. Now he’s laughing again, that hollow, deep, manic sound. Kuroiwa grits his teeth against the taste of metal and blood and lifts his head. His nose throbs with pain that rattles all the way into his gumline. He hopes it isn’t broken; feels like his jaw took the brunt of the impact. Hamura squats down to survey him, grabbing him by the chin. Asshole thinks he’s in power here.

“What a shame,” he purrs, thumbing at a wound on his soft, rounded upper lip that’s leaking a tiny ink-stream of blood that catches blackish in the cloudy night, “It always hurts me to abuse the pretty faces. Of course, not enough to stop me from doing so.”

“Bastard,” Kuroiwa hisses, and jerks his face away, but Hamura catches him again by the back of his head. Hamura wears this look on his face that makes it seem as though he’s just woken up, half-peace, half-sleepiness.

Suddenly, he threads his fingers in through the strands of Kuroiwa’s wax-styled hair (does a policeman really need all that?) and yanks him to the side. “Call for backup. Come on. You can’t take me in on your own. And look—” he jerks his head in the direction of the traffic that slows but does not stop to the right of them, “—no one’s here to help you. Ah, but you have too much pride, don’t you? See, kid, I’m just like you. Too much of an arrogant bastard to let anyone help me out. I can do everything myself. And if I can’t—well, I’ll make ‘em do my bidding. It’s a matter of pride, y’see.”

Kuroiwa grabs him by the wrist and strokes it, slow and gentle as the fan of a peacock feather. The tenderness makes Hamura falter and loosen his grip enough to let go of Kuroiwa’s hair, giving Kuroiwa the chance to snag him by the arm and bite down hard into his skin, at the spot where his wrist peeks out of his suit jacket, his huge, white teeth digging in deep enough that he can almost picture slurping up Hamura’s veins like ramen noodles.

“ _JESUS FUCKING CHRIST_!” Hamura yells as Kuroiwa chomps in deeper with a furious, manic stare.

Hamura rips his arm away and loses a chunk of skin when he does. He slaps a hand over where he’s now dribbling blood, the liquid pooling into his chunky, silver watch that goes on tick-tick-ticking, unaware of the trauma around it. The high barely mitigates the pain and he shakes out his hand with a half-chuckle.

“Not against playing dirty, are you?”

Before he can deduce that this cop is, in fact, out of his fucking mind, Hamura watches his face morph and waver in front of him. Hamura falls onto his elbow and hacks up a stream of greyish bile, before passing out on the road, at the mercy of this twenty-one-year-old traffic cop with a piece of his skin between his teeth that flash like an alligator’s.

*

“You think you’re in power here?”

Hamura had woken up not in a jail cell as expected, but in a western-style bed layered with worn but clean blankets. He had been stripped of his shoes and left in his suit, and his wrist had scabbed over, untreated. Kuroiwa’s apartment was not dissimilar to the first one Hamura had when he was broke and living off of whatever dealing got him by. One room, a tiny ledge of a balcony with only enough space for a rather slim man to scoot onto, the toilet stuffed into a closet-sized bathroom with a sink and a leaky showerhead jutting out of the wall. The main room was composed of the bed, a leather couch, a stove, a television, a potted plant half-wilted from a particularly cloudy season, and an old wine-red rug. Not much else. Despite its low quality, the few pieces of furniture that belonged to Kuroiwa did seem to be well taken care of, and in pristine condition despite their age. Family antiques, Hamura imagined, or hand-me-downs.

Now they stand on Kuroiwa’s balcony, Hamura’s crotch pressed to the railing and his ass pressed to the sliding door behind him, it’s so goddamn tight. Kuroiwa sips his coffee and stares at the small courtyard below—a hundred similar apartments make a cube of housing. Clotheslines hang with underwear and the smell of rice cooking comes from the open windows of the brick complex. It reminds Hamura of Yokohama’s Chinatown. It’s another grey day.

“Yes,” Kuroiwa answers, sipping his coffee from a white mug without any labels, “I do.”

“Yeah, sure,” Hamura snickers, rubbing at his head. He’s suffering from a pretty nasty withdrawal, not that he’ll let it show on his face, “You bring me to your own stomping grounds and now you think you’re in control. You’re an idiot to not take me straight to jail.”

“You intrigue me.”

“Oh? Are you hitting on me?” Hamura grins, ignoring the pain in the back of his neck, the throbbing inside of his skull. “This is stupid. Really stupid. You could lose your job, you know.”

“What a tragic loss. I can’t give anymore speeding tickets. Boo-fucking-hoo.”

Hamura shouldn’t be surprised. This lunatic was practically playing with him on that overpass, jumping out of his skin for a fight rather than performing his job properly. It could have been so easy to taze him, to use that blackjack, to throw his wrists behind his back. But no. Dude took a chunk of his arm out of him with his _teeth_ , after all. Hamura begins to see an asset forming before him. It’s a shame Kuroiwa isn’t in a stronger position of power.

“Good job looking through my pockets,” Hamura says, patting down his slacks.

“Ah, you hear well even in your sleep.”

“And what do you plan on doing with all that cash?”

“Consider it your cost of freedom.”

A non-consensual bribe, then. “And what if I’d rather rot in a cell for a little and keep my cash?”

“You wouldn’t. Bail would cost just as much. Consider this a favor; keeping your record a little less disgusting than it already is.”

So he did a background check, too—and still didn’t throw him in prison despite his known brawling, his association with a newly forming Tojo Clan family under Matsugane.

Forget morality, then—this is a dirty cop.

“This is a bigger paycheck than you make in a month, isn’t it?”

Kuroiwa wears this small, innocent smile, his full cheeks squishing up beneath his eyes. He doesn’t _seem_ like he’s crazy. He’s in a black button up, tucked into a pair of slacks that makes it look like he’s still wearing a gakuran at twenty-one.

“What’s your name?”

“Kuroiwa.”

“Hamura, though I’m sure you already know that.”

Kuroiwa finishes his coffee and slides the screen door open, shuffling inside. Hamura follows him, but before he can take a step towards the bed to gather his things and leave this psycho’s little cage of an apartment, Kuroiwa’s wheeled around and steps on his feet. He has shoes on, and Hamura’s in his sheer dress socks. Hamura winces.

“Get off.”

“Show me your wrist.”

Hamura shoves him off and Kuroiwa snatches at his suit jacket, pushing it up to reveal a reddish-brown patch of raised teeth marks, the color of an adobe house. Old blood. Kuroiwa wrinkles his nose and hisses, “How _disgusting_ ,” as if it isn’t his fault. Then his tongue falls out of his mouth and he drags the flat of it over the wound, feeling the raised scab there and finding it oddly pleasant and metallic on his tongue. He almost moans as he tightens his lips around the wound and suckles there, as if trying to leave a hickey.

“You’re fucked up.”

Kuroiwa pops off and says, “How observational. You know, I’ve always wanted to be friends with a yakuza.”

“I’m not your friend.”

“Do you have a tattoo?” he asks, inching forward, his feet back on Hamura’s. When he’s standing on them, they’re the same height. He’s claustrophobic, feverish, and Hamura’s thoroughly weirded out. He grits his teeth and Kuroiwa breathes through his nose, against them.

“Yes. The outline is in development. I’d probably be able to finish it if you hadn’t robbed me.”

“Don’t drive high next time,” Kuroiwa says, “Anyway, you’re not going anywhere. Not until I get what I want.”

“You think you can stop me?” Hamura snarls, stepping back, but Kuroiwa just moves with him. Monkey on his back.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“Get away. Get _away_ from me, you crazy fuck.”

“You’re probably hurting. Would you like some coffee?”

There it is again: the rainbow flash of an oil slick in those beetle-black eyes. Mania, the edge of madness threatening to spill, the twitch of a soft, unsuspecting face. Hamura sucks his bottom lip beneath his teeth and holds back any oncoming threats. He’s a cop—he’s a cop and he could ruin his life. Not only does he have his wallet, his shoes, his money, but he has his freedom.

“Sure,” he says. Kuroiwa smells like mint, and abuse of power. “I’d love a coffee.”

*

Of course, Kuroiwa proves himself useful, and the relationship quickly becomes symbiotic from there. It’s an easy trade—Kuroiwa plays cop and eschews away any suspecting passersby as Hamura commits his weapons dealing in the maroon interior of Club Amour, and in exchange, Hamura pays him twice, _triple_ his usual paycheck. All the while, Kuroiwa carefully avoids the spotlight by constantly wearing a sick mask, and a low-rimmed cap, keeping his badge tucked into his pocket rather than on his lapel.

One day, it will escalate into a huger monster beyond Hamura’s control, but for now, the thrill of working together in these small, two-bit criminal dealings is a rush for them. Barely twenty-six, Hamura feels as if he’s climbing the proverbial ladder without realizing how low of a rung he’s still clinging to. He makes deposits in the Matsugane Family’s safe and bathes in the praise that his aniki gives him. A time before Kaito, before Higashi—before Kengo was even _born_ —and Hamura truly feels integrated in the Tojo Clan. As for Kuroiwa, Hamura doesn’t dig too deeply into the psychology of whatever he gets out of it. The guy’s a lunatic, and he’s strapped for cash. They don’t ask questions.

But slowly, Hamura begins to depend on him more and more. It’s so much easier to perform like this—and, fuck it, he _does_ trust him. Dirty cops aren’t uncommon in places like Kamurocho, but he knows that they’re always in the pockets of people like the Shimano Family, the Dojima Family—these hard-hitters, top dogs, with more money than he could dream of having.

As such, a thread of tenderness has been sewn in Hamura for Kuroiwa. Kuroiwa’s a nobody in his chain of command, just like Hamura in the Matsugane Family, but they seem to hype each other up with power. Insulated in their own new earnings, which would be nothing to someone like Dojima, they feel like rich, strong, geniuses of criminals, though they’re barely anything more than any other street punk on some new get-rich-quick scheme every month.

Hamura begins dabbling in more illicit bullshit as time goes on, and Kuroiwa never bats an eye, never thinks he’s going too far. He starts importing opium from Jiangsu, starts operating a miniature loan sharking business that dies fast whenever no one stops by after the third week as news of his 25% interest rates get out. When Hamura suggests kidnapping and ransom, Kuroiwa just shrugs and says, “You’ll have to figure that one out on your own, but I’m not opposed to joining.”

*

They’re walking past West Park, on their way to get a few celebratory drinks, both of them in casual wear, whenever Kuroiwa suddenly seizes Hamura by the back of his tracksuit and yanks him to the side.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Hamura snarls furiously as he’s dragged to the public bathrooms that smell of shit and sour cleaning supplies.

“I like you, Hamura. I think you’re a real fucking idiot.”

“Get your hands off of me. Jesus Christ,” he hisses, pushing him off, but Kuroiwa shows no signs of backing down. In the six months they’ve spent getting each other into dumb shit, Kuroiwa seems to have gotten stronger, more merciless. He grabs Hamura by the shoulders and backs him into the first stall, a cramped space that’s relatively clean compared to the other ones. His back juts against the wall and he cringes as his head shudders with the impact. Kuroiwa is as immovable as the brick around them.

“Ow… What the fuck is your _deal_?” Hamura half-suspects that Kuroiwa is about to betray him, and he’s very happy that he carries around a gun. His hand goes to his waistband as inconspicuously as he can manage, but before Kuroiwa can see and lose his mind, Kuroiwa seals his lips to his, their teeth knocking together unpleasantly. Kuroiwa’s teeth have always freaked Hamura out after that first night they met. (He still has a flat, white scar healing slowly on his wrist.)

Hamura grunts in disgust, turning his head and severing the too-hot line of spit with his tongue that connects their mouths, but Kuroiwa just stays boxing him in, his arms pinning him on either side as he kisses at whatever skin he can; his cheek, his neck, his jawline. Hamura’s got a sharp face, and Kuroiwa’s always been a little envious of his looks; he finds himself too round and soft to be threatening, as if made of clay. He digs his hips into his and gasps against Hamura’s thundering pulse as he does.

“ _Fuck_ … Feel big, Hamura…”

“You’re a goddamn pervert,” Hamura says without much vitriol, fine with being manhandled like this. He’s not a virgin, but it’s been a while with all the hustling. He hasn’t had time for anything other than morning jerk-off sessions to nothing but adult video tapes that he picks up once in a blue moon.

Besides, he always figured Kuroiwa was a fucking queer. What with how bizarre he is in every way. (Not that he himself is opposed to sleeping with men. He’s just never had to struggle with it, since he gets off to _anything_ with two legs.)

“For fuck’s sake,” he says with exasperation when Kuroiwa’s tongue dips inside his ear, too close and moist and hot. Then it smooths flat over the shell of it, feeling the barely-there peachfuzz. He takes it into his mouth and bites again and Hamura winces. “Always with the goddamn teeth. I’ll knock them out of your fucking skull if you don’t stop.”

“ _Mine_ ,” Kuroiwa pants, his hands cupping Hamura’s face possessively. There’s pure fetish in his eyes, delirium that makes his irises blow up, a fey smile on those lips that are now spit wet. “You’re mine, Hamura-san. Your life belongs to me. I can ruin you if I want.”

Hamura scoffs, as if Kuroiwa’s the one with the Glock in his tracksuit. “Sure, Kuroiwa.”

In an instant, Kuroiwa’s hair is in his hand and Hamura’s knocked him against the back of the stall, pushed him down onto the toilet seat. He pulls his gun from his pants and shoves it in Kuroiwa’s face, the barrel squishing up against that markless K-beauty skin, but Kuroiwa wears an expression of serenity, his eyes half-mast and lips quirked like he’s enjoying an autumn breeze. “Let’s talk about it,” Hamura says, letting go of his hair to rub at his own crotch. He’s getting hard from the lavishing attention. “The twenty-one-year-old, cock-hungry policeman who’s living out of my pocket is in control of the gun-wielding yakuza. _Sure_ , pal. Let’s say you report my ass to your cop buddies who, might I add, already hate your fucking guts. They ask: ‘ _and where were_ you _while this all was happening? How have_ you _come across this knowledge?_ ’ And you answer, ‘ _oh, you know,_ assisting _. I was an accomplice. Not just an accomplice, but a slutty one at that._ ’ And then we’re both in the cell together. You’ve got nothing on me, _Mitsuru-chan_. So, stop playing tough and keep your teeth out of the fucking way when I stick my cock in that babycop mouth, okay?”

Kuroiwa nods, obediently, and slips from the toilet onto his knees, reaching up to carefully pull down his pants. He stares at Hamura’s dick with wide, hungry eyes, shifting uncontrollably in his pretty little slacks like he’s got a vibrator shoved up his ass or something.

His cock is fat, dark, and smells thoroughly of Hamura—something Kuroiwa wishes wasn’t dampened by the gross smell of the bathroom now, but that’s his fault, he supposes. He leans forward and inhales. His cock smells delicious: all dry fruit accords and tobacco and sweet gourmand and semen.

“What the fuck?” Hamura laughs at the sight of this eager cop sniffing at his dick, “You really are fucked up. What a faggot,” he says fondly, and slaps the length of it against Kuroiwa’s pale cheek. Kuroiwa kisses along it, eyes turned up at him. Guy could have anime-style sparkles twinkling in them for how adoring he looks. It’s strange; for once, he seems to have replaced the inhumanity in his expression. Hamura’s _honored_.

“Maybe I should keep you in here, since you’re so fucking eager to be a bathroom cockwhore,” Hamura observes cruelly, watching Kuroiwa open his mouth and go down on the head of his cock, pushing the foreskin back with his lips expertly. It gives Hamura the impression that this isn’t the first time he’s done this. “You can just be a whore for sale. What about that? That’s a pretty good business excursion. You know, behind weapons and drugs, sex is the third thing traffickers profit from. If we’re gonna be partners, might as well make yourself even _more_ useful.”

He fucks his hips forward, groaning at the heat that envelops his shaft as Kuroiwa chokes. Tight throat—almost swollen, as if he has the flu. This doesn’t bother Hamura, and he rocks forward in short, punishing thrusts that batter the back of Kuroiwa’s mouth. Wet noises result and it only gets his dick harder, his balls heavier. “Fuck, you’re such a goddamn cumslut. Yeah, I’ll keep you in here, punch out a hole for a fat cock to slip through so you can drool on it, fulfill those urges. Write some nice stuff on the walls like, ‘whore’ and ‘five-hundred-thousand yen a hit,’ because you’re a _prime_ hooker. None of that cheap hostess club shit.”

He pulls out suddenly and observes Kuroiwa, crouching on the bathroom tiles, his cock tenting his slacks, kneeling on a dirty patch of—piss, he’s _assuming_. He has his mouth open and his tongue is hanging from it like he’s waiting for more. Hamura slips a finger on that pink flesh and feels his dick pump out a wad of stringy precum as he begins to suck it.

“Alright,” he gestures vaguely with his gun as Kuroiwa continues nursing his finger. “Get up. Bend over the toilet and show me that pussy.”

Kuroiwa stands up, quickly undoes his belt, lets his slacks pool around his thighs, and spreads his legs. He’s not wearing underwear and Hamura bites the inside of his mouth as he smooths a palm over his soft, round asscheek. (In the years to come, he’ll become stronger, and Kuroiwa’s body will be tense and hard with muscle. But for now, he’s still touchable as mochi dough.)

“You’re kidding yourself if you think you can share me, Hamura-san. You’re too possessive.”

“I think of myself as a generous person,” he says, spitting in his palm and dragging his hand over Kuroiwa’s hole. It’s tight, like his throat, and it takes his finger with quite a bit of effort. But Hamura manages. Kuroiwa whimpers, his eyes tearing up. Hamura’s never heard him be so noisy; never seen him be so reactive. Dude could be a robot with one emotion set to anger, had it not been for how easy he’s being right now.

“ _Nnh_ …”

“Hurts?”

“No. Ah— _ah_!” Kuroiwa gasps when Hamura angles his finger up, rubbing his thumb around the tight pucker as he pushes in deeper. Kuroiwa’s _throbbing_ inside. “Fuck!”

It’s dry, and spit is hardly enough, but he makes it work. He sets his gun down by their feet—probably a stupid move on his part, but safety’s off and his dick is too hard to think straight. Kuroiwa’s cock is positively leaking between his legs, as wet as a girl’s cunt. Hamura won’t touch it, he swears to himself—he’ll make Kuroiwa cum against the wall with only his dick.

He withdraws his hand from his tight channel and replaces the empty space with the head of his cock. God, he’s hot inside, and twitching furiously. As sensitive as an exposed nerve. Hamura pistons his hips forward and Kuroiwa nearly _screams_ whenever his hole is breached, making no effort to hide his noises. Not like anyone will bother them, not here—even if they did, what would they do?

Arrest them?

The thought brings a smirk to his face as he fills his cockwhore of a police officer up with his dick, groaning in tandem with Kuroiwa as he ducks his face between Kuroiwa’s shoulder blades. It feels too big inside him, the hole tight around his shaft, like a rubber band clinging against him. Not unpleasant, but overwhelming. Hamura digs his hips in short circles once he’s filled him up completely and relishes in the shuddering frame beneath him.

Groping Kuroiwa over his shirt, he brushes his fingers over his nipples, drags out, his rim clutching up around the out-pull, and then slams his hips in.

“ _Ahhn_!”

His voice is _high_. God, it turns him on. Hamura always likes the noisy ones, the crybabies.

“You fucking whore. You honest-to-god slut. You deserve this, don’t you? You deserve your pussy to be pounded like you’re a street walker. Walking around like you’re in control, acting like you can get me to do your bidding. But you’re my pet, aren’t you?”

Kuroiwa just pants, and shudders, his body pressed up against the wall, rubbing it with every thrust forward.

“Fuck— _fuckkk_ —me. Fuck me _up_ , Hamura-san.”

“That’s it, keep begging for it. You’re such a pathetic, masochistic slut.”

_You’re giving me what I want_ , Kuroiwa thinks giddily as he’s shoved full of dick, feeling like he’s being split open. It hurts, of course it does, but more than that, he’s full of pride. Smug with himself for having Hamura bend to his will. All it took was a push in a bathroom, a few kisses on the cheek.

And he’ll pay him well, too.

The veneer of control shatters when Hamura reaches between his legs and rubs the head of his cock with a twist of his palm, breaking his own promise. But he can’t help it—it looks so good just hanging there, untouched and weeping. Might as well be _him_ to touch it. ( _Is Kuroiwa a virgin?_ ) Kuroiwa shouts and cums quickly against the wall, splattering it with semen.

And then, as Hamura keeps fucking him in unrhythmic, messy thrusts, he feels it—

The telltale shudder of Kuroiwa’s shoulders, the hiccupping little breaths, the cold, fast inhales. Kuroiwa is _sobbing_.

“Oh, Christ—” Hamura gasps, leaning forward and digging his hips in tight, using Kuroiwa’s body as what is essentially an onahole, warming himself up in his cunt, “—You bitch. You little fucking bitch…”

“ _Ahn_ … Hamura-san—” Kuroiwa reaches back, looks over his shoulder with these wide, glossy doll eyes, and winds their fingers together. He has a pout on his face, a light blush on his cheeks that is barely illuminated in the sour light of the bathroom, tear marks on his cheeks, and he purrs, “Oh, aniki… You don’t stand a chance.”

It’s like a punch to the gut. His thighs strain, and he juts his hips impossibly closer to Kuroiwa’s soft ass. Hamura cums inside of him, filling him up so much that some of it leaks out around where his cock is stretching his hole out. It’s slippery, thick, clings to the warm flesh of his inner thigh—he should drink more water. Kuroiwa smirks as Hamura calls him every name he can think of, his entire body twitching, his fingers tight around his biceps.

His head lolls back on his neck and he stares at Hamura.

“You knocked me up.”

“Don’t say shit like that,” Hamura says, grabbing him by the chin. His tongue slips out of his mouth and he licks up a fresh tear. They’re fake, he knows they are. But something about Kuroiwa being able to cry on demand gets his heart racing.

He’s really scored with this guy.

“What should we name our kid?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Hamura laughs into his cheek, feeling like a newlywed couple and not a pair of crime lords who just fucked in a public bathroom outside of a homeless park.

“Clean my pussy up,” he purrs, reaching back to part his asscheeks, showing off his cum-slicked cunt. Hamura’s dick slips out of him and all too quickly drops to his knees.

As he licks away his spend, Kuroiwa sighs, cheek pressed to the body-warm, damp bathroom wall, his hole fluttering under Hamura’s wet and messy ministrations.

It’s all very romantic.

**Author's Note:**

> bump dareda! by denki groove or i'll GET you
> 
> this was a commission and i hope it was very hard boner sex for you my luv
> 
> [here's my carrd](https://bibles.carrd.co/)


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